


eye of gold, thigh of blue

by sshomoerotica



Series: Warcraft Drabbles [4]
Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: Hallow's End, M/M, Masquerade Ball, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-27 20:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12589820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshomoerotica/pseuds/sshomoerotica
Summary: Hallow’s End - a popular holiday to be sure, and one Khadgar has not participated in since before he joined the Kirin Tor. The Kirin Tor are not one for holidays. Khadgar can still remember the way he yearned for celebration when he was new to the life, until years at Dalaran dulled that ache.This year, however, things are different. He has been invited to celebrate the holiday in Stormwind. They will take a break from poring over maps in war rooms and taking stock of garrisons and harvests. It is time for a ball; a masquerade ball.





	eye of gold, thigh of blue

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to go up ON HALLOWEEN but AO3 was having issues and cockblocked me  
> i don't have any excuse for this. i just wanted to write Khadgar/Anduin where there's a masquerade ball and then it got real smutty real fast (:
> 
> fair warning this is just so extra and weirdly fluffy idek what it is i just know it's a mess. it gets ridiculous at the end. any errors are my own because i got this thing read through by ash twice and if i made errors afterwards that's on me

 

* * *

* * *

 

The change from summer to fall is sudden, in that one day the whole of Eastern Kingdoms seems to have woken to leaves changed and weather cooled. From his perch in Karazhan’s highest towers, it’s hard for Khadgar to tell that fall has come to the surrounding lands. The pass and land surrounding Karazhan have yet to fully recover from the effects of Medivh’s downfall, everything still grey and barren.

Still, the days fade from their hot, long drag to something new, short and cool. When Khadgar journeys into Elwynn, the vibrant green leaves have waned and look as if they’ve been burnt along their edges. Green slips to shades of yellow, then warms to orange or red. Around their worn, thick trunks the brown dried ones pile up, crunching underfoot. Crisp, whipping winds start to blow in through the mountains, and children everywhere begin to beg for sweets.

Hallow’s End - how Khadgar can remember the tales told. Stories of the night upon which the veil between the land of the living and the realm of the dead is at its thinnest. As a child he can remember sitting on the edge of his proverbial seat, being told harrowing tales of demons, ghosts, banshees and ghouls that sought to steal away naughty children in the dead of night. Traveling caravans told stories of the effigy that burned outside the walls of Stormwind. It was said that tossing branches into the flame was a way to cleanse oneself of any burdens before the slow and somber days of winter came.

A popular holiday to be sure, and one Khadgar has not participated in since before he joined the Kirin Tor. The Kirin Tor are not one for holidays. Khadgar can still remember the way he yearned for celebration when he was new to the life, until years at Dalaran dulled that ache.

This year, however, things are different. He has been invited to celebrate the holiday in Stormwind. They will take a break from poring over maps in war rooms and taking stock of garrisons and harvests. Instead, it is a chance for the city to put her best foot forward. A chance to bring allies close and forge a lasting alliance based on good times shared. It is time for a ball; a masquerade ball.

Khadgar will readily admit he isn’t one for balls. He never learned to dance, and he’s yet to feel entirely comfortable in a room filled with nobles, states folk and politicians. But whether he wants the title or not, Azeroth sees him as its Guardian now, and this party is one of the simpler, happier things that will be expected of him - and, he can’t deny the faintly childlike thrill as he tries to come up with what to wear.

The point of a masquerade party is  _not_  to go as something terribly obvious. One doesn’t want to be found out too quickly. Nor does he want to go as something flashy. This won’t be a party like they might have out in Goldshire, or the small village Khadgar grew up in. No sheets thrown overhead with small, poorly-cut holes for eyes, or a great wrap of linen strips covering you from head to toe. He can remember, as a child, wishing to dress up like a wolf or a ghoul, and how his parents would laugh at his antics in trying to scare them. But now is not a time for such games. Those in attendance will be rich, well-connected, and probably have appropriately lavish costumes.

It would be easy enough to magic something together, floating candles for spaulders and great glimmering arcane accents, but that isn’t who he is. Khadgar won’t throw his magic around like a glamorous accessory, flaunting it foolishly. He’d just as much like to not be noticed at all.

People probably won’t be dressing as ghouls, or anything frightening. He could dress as a wizard, he supposes, but waves the thought away almost immediately. Too obvious.

One day, while sitting and reading a particularly dry text about ley lines and their effects on the natural fauna -- a topic that would be quite interesting, if not for how the High Elf author wrote it -- he notices a raven swooping by outside the window. It gives a scratchy cry as it coasts on a breeze, wings held perfectly straight. Karazhan is full of them ever since the Fel incident.

The bird circles on the air and coasts down, joining the larger carrion birds in picking at rats and other carcasses in the pass below. As Khadgar watches its flight, the hazy sunset light catches the raven's feathers. Where they were once dark black, now they sparkle and shimmer, turning colors in the iridescent way a fish’s scales might, or that of a butterfly’s wings. They are beautiful, and with a flash of inspiration, Khadgar knows now what his costume will be.

 

* * *

 

It doesn't take much work to make. In the end it isn’t much more than a mask and a cloak, paired with a dark tunic and pants to match. The mask and cloak are time consuming, but in a familiar, pleasant way. Khadgar has never minded tedious work; on the contrary, he finds it relaxing. Gathering the feathers proves to be the worst of it. He finds a man in Stormwind who keeps ravens - amongst other birds - for messages or pets, and manages to get most of the feathers from him. Others he finds along the ground outside Karazhan. In between chores or as he reads he meticulously places each feather along the cloak, weaving magic in when his fingers threaten to leave the seam crooked or the cloth shredded.

For the finishing touch, he manages to work up a glimmer that strengthens the iridescent sheen of the feathers. They still only show their true colors when they catch the light, but now it’s more like thousands of little crystals - a chandelier glimmer, refracted and catching off the nearby bookshelves as Khadgar twists the material this way and that.

The mask is nothing too ornate, lined in smaller feathers that didn’t make the cut for his cloak. He makes the holes for his eyes very small, just large enough to see comfortably, and allows the mask a sort of beak-like shape. It covers the apples of his cheeks and follows the curve of his nose, but doesn’t cover his mouth. With the hood on the cloak pulled up, he makes for quite a mysterious figure indeed.

On the night of the party, Khadgar settles the cloak against his shoulders, runs his fingers down the smooth flat of the feathers and calls his magic to him. The tower is silent, dark but with the faint glimmer of candles burning low. There is old, deep magic in the brick and mortar here that Khadgar feels echoes of every time he uses his spells. Echoes of Medivh. The dust settled on everything stirs, thrums with the arcane. Everything shimmers, there's a lurch in his belly, and then he is standing in the bedroom that has been designated as his own for trips to Stormwind. Papers, sketches and notes pinned to the walls flutter with his arrival.

He can hear the voices of the other guests in the great hall, underneath the swell of music. He adjusts his cloak again, pulls up his hood, makes sure his mask is secure, and then makes his way to the party.

When he arrives at the entrance to the great hall, he's what the Queen would say is fashionably late and Lothar would simply call late. While he isn’t oblivious to the assessing or impressed looks that are thrown his way, most are too busy with the party to notice him, and it's easy to slip into the throng.

Although there is some light from chandeliers above, the main glow comes from candles scattered about, allowing the entire room to be darker than might be normal. It reminds Khadgar of how the mages in Dalaran used to light the libraries, just barely enough to see by. It was as if they believed they could create silence through imposed darkness. Pumpkins have been perched around the room, some on high windowsills or table ends, each with a different expression carved into its rind. Candles flicker inside, making some of the faces appear to wink. Everything smells faintly of the heat of melting candles, spice and wine, perfume and smoke, gentled by an occasional cool breeze through the open doors and windows.

A band of musicians along the back wall have struck up a tune that feels decidedly eerie, not a song for a dance but one for atmosphere instead. A cello lets loose long, sad, deep bellows while a flute plays light, shivering tones. Khadgar can’t keep the smile from his face - it certainly takes him back to his childhood; back to what Hallow's End felt like when he was a boy.

Along the wall is a table, long and laden with food and drink. Khadgar makes his way over and grabs himself a cup of mulled wine. Every sip feels like it is warming his body from the inside out.

Standing against the wall and watching the room, Khadgar realizes he was afraid he would feel foolish attending something like this. Now, taking a moment to see the party goers, he realizes that his own costume is decidedly less ostentatious than many others'. There's no reason to feel embarrassed when he looks practically bland in his own work. The room’s true vibrancy comes from the color of people’s costumes and the merry peals of laughter. He scans the room from his spot, catching sight of a magnificent stag with a looming, intricate rack of antlers, long tendrils of moss and vines dripping from each tine. Over in the corner is a downright hilarious murloc, gesticulating wildly with oversized, bugged-out costume eyes that roll with every movement. Khadgar even spots one quite offensive dwarf, fake nose protruding and beard thrown over his shoulder.

It doesn't take long for him to spot the queen. She is resplendent in an all-white gown, embroidered with delicate, glittering gold accents and a mask that amounts to rays of light shining outwards. As Khadgar watches she is slowly circling back to her spot; a great chair that isn’t quite the throne but manages to take its place well enough. Khadgar takes his cup of wine with him and makes his way towards her; she did invite him, after all.

He bows before her, sweeping his robe as to make his dark, glittering feathers rustle. As he straightens, he sees in her expression that she cannot quite tell who he is. With a smile, he allows the magics to flow through him and waits for her to see the glowing blue of his eyes. She smiles suddenly, beckoning him closer.

"Khadgar!” She exclaims, reaching out to have him take her hand. “I'm so glad to see you've made it." She leans in close to be heard above the pleasant din of the party. "We hadn't heard from you in a while. Lothar was sure you weren’t coming."

"Apologies, your Majesty.” Khadgar winces. “I did not intend to be away for so long."

"Ah." Her smile turns, teasing but still kind. She squeezes his hand. "I see. Well, we must work to ensure we only miss you for a week at the most! No losing sight of you for months, or years."

“Of course, your Majesty.” Khadgar's belly twinges to think of Medivh, left alone in that tower for so long. He switches topics with a quick smile. “Happy Hallow’s Eve!”

"Happy Hallow’s Eve.” Taria returns. “Look at you!" She gestures with a gentle flick of her wrist at his costume. A series of thin gold bracelets shake and rattle harmoniously at the motion. Any thoughts of Medivh are banished with her joy. "You look simply splendid. Did you make this yourself?"

"Oh, uhm.” Khadgar flushes, waving a dismissive hand. “I just threw it together. But thank you, your Majesty.” He bows his head, and then gestures to her ensemble. “You, of course, look beautiful."

Taria laughs, soft like bells. It is perhaps the happiest Khadgar has ever seen her in months.

“You flatter me,” she says, and shakes her head. “Thank you.”

“Are Varian and Adariall here?”

“They certainly were earlier.” Taria glances half-heartedly across the room. “I’m sure they had their fill of the sweets and have now run off. Tonight I do not envy the governess her job.”

Khadgar chuckles, remembering the way he and his friends would act once they had their fill of desserts.

“Now, Khadgar.” Taria’s tone changes, something almost motherly in the arch of her brows and something regal and commanding in the way she pulls herself up. “I want you to enjoy yourself tonight. If I hear that you magicked yourself away early I’ll be very cross with you.” She affects a scowl, but Khadgar can see the smile in her eyes. “And try a dance or two.”

Khadgar blanches beneath his mask. _No dances, thanks,_ he thinks to himself, but puts on a smile. “I make no promises, your Majesty. I was born with the dancing feet of a Murloc.”

The look she levels at him makes it clear what she thinks of that.

“I won’t argue with my Queen.” Khadgar relents, with a little grin. “But I’ll try and enjoy myself.”

A self-important looking woman comes up to Taria’s elbow, dressed impeccably. She leans over and whispers behind a hand into Taria’s ear.

“Oh, Khadgar, I’m sorry. I have to go. This may be a party but there’s still diplomacy to be worked.”

“Couldn’t you put that task onto your brother, tonight?” Khadgar teases. They both know how Lothar feels about politics. Taria sighs, shaking her head.

“A fair point.” She rises from her seat, smoothing down the layers of her dress. “But I’ve not yet seen my brother tonight. If you manage to spot him,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “tell him he owes me.”

Khadgar nods with mock solemnity, and bows deep as the Queen takes her leave. He slips away, refills his cup of wine and settles himself against a wall to watch the room, gaze flitting from one person to another and cataloguing his favorite looks. As a child, this holiday was one mostly about sweets and tainted with irrational fear. Now, he finds he rather likes the idea of dressing up and enjoying it as an adult.

"Quite a costume." A voice purrs, too close for comfort. Khadgar barely keeps himself from jumping as he turns, finding himself in the company of a gryphon.

It is a man, taller than Khadgar and dressed in a crown of white feathers that is resplendent and beautifully molded. The mask has ridges above the eyes, flared out cheeks, and leads down into a curved, vicious-looking yellowed beak that covers most of the speaker's mouth from view. Khadgar swallows.

"And you, sir." He returns, slightly unsure but fighting not to show it. The other doesn't turn away at the return of the compliment -- rather seeming even _more_ invested in the conversation than before.

The music changes suddenly, from the faintly unnerving atmospheric tones to the warm-up notes of a more common, danceable tune. The Gryphon holds out a hand. His white tunic has long sleeves connected to his shirt, with delicate, perfect white feathers that cascade down, getting longer as they come to his wrist. They’re a set of wings, Khadgar realizes, so much more intricate than his own silly feathered cloak. The Gryphon even has on fingerless gloves, a faded ochre yellow with leather textured like a gryphon’s foot. Khadgar's stomach swoops.

"May I have this dance?"

"I'm afraid I'm not very good." Khadgar blurts out immediately, shaking his head. He looks out across the room, heart in his throat. "Y-you might be better served by someone-- someone who knows the steps."

"Nonsense." The Gryphon's tone brooks no argument, although it is not harsh or angry. "A dance is a team effort, and I would be a terrible dancer myself if I could not lead you successfully. Give me a chance, and let's see if I can't change your mind."

There’s something oddly affected about the man’s voice - too enunciated, too clear. Khadgar isn’t looking, but he thinks he can hear a smile.

Against his better judgement a small, pleasant shiver runs up Khadgar's spine. People are beginning to move to the center of the room, others pushing their way to the walls to wait it out. The Gryphon still looks at him, unblinking, expectant. Finally, Khadgar puts his hand in The Gryphon's; even through the glove his touch is warm.

"All right." Khadgar breathes, and lets himself be lead to the floor.

The other dancers seem to make room for them as The Gryphon settles one hand against Khadgar's back. Khadgar feels himself tense with uncertainty. His hands hover uselessly, mind going utterly blank.

"Take my hand." The Gryphon invites, words just for Khadgar’s ears. He holds out his right hand. Khadgar flushes as he reaches up - he wasn't kidding about not knowing the steps - and puts their hands together, palm to palm. The Gryphon’s palm is dry and worn as he moves their hands together, canting their arms up and away from their bodies.

With a quick and easy motion, The Gryphon takes his free arm and seems to scoop up Khadgar’s, so that his hand alights on Khadgar’s back, just below his shoulder blade, and the crook of Khadgar’s right arm rests atop The Gryphon’s own. Their arms are held at sharp angles in the air, elbows bent but not rigid.

This close, Khadgar notices that the shoulders of The Gryphon’s tunic are feather-lined pauldrons, built up like the thick neck of a gryphon -- something Khadgar knows well about, since Lothar always insists on flying around on one when he visits. He thinks for a moment of Lothar, wondering whether he even came tonight or if he's on some patrol, or out at the training yards, busying himself with anything but this party.

He would have liked to see Lothar here, he thinks, a fleeting thought fueled loose by the wine. He would have been something magnificent - a lion, perhaps, with a mane of gold and great ivory fangs.

The music swells and The Gryphon begins to lead them in earnest. Lothar leaves Khadgar’s thoughts as quickly as he joined them; he has no time for stupid, childish pining when he has to focus on not tripping over his own feet. Surprisingly, after a few steps, Khadgar finds it easy to follow The Gryphon, to go where he leads. After a while Khadgar doesn't feel the need to look down at his own feet, and rather tips his chin up, startled to see that The Gryphon is looking at him, not with disinterest. His gaze is nearly piercing, a perfect imitation of how a gryphon looks at everything around it; focus so intent it reminds Khadgar of light refracted through a lens, scorching the surface under it.

He doesn't want to glance away, and with a start he realizes that he doesn’t have to. Khadgar no longer has to worry about himself, about how to move his own feet. He can trust The Gryphon to keep him steady, to lead them where they need to be. They must look a sight, staring so intently at each other.

The Gryphon spins them expertly and Khadgar doesn't think he's imagining that he pulls them closer, large hand tight and warm at his back. Their chests are almost touching now, and every sway across the floor lets them brush.

He shouldn't be able to hear the way The Gryphon's breath hitches, nor should he feel like the glimmer in those eyes is faintly familiar. Everything is charged, the room around them seeming to fall away.

 _This_ , Khadgar thinks, _is why the Kirin Tor don't have parties._

The music slows and fades away, and the crowd breaks into soft applause.

“You're a natural.” The Gryphon murmurs. Khadgar feels himself flush. He pulls away, giving a little bow. “A fast learner.”

“Only because you are such a good leader.” Khadgar insists, smiling. His nerves are starting to return to him. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” The man purrs, bowing deep.

Khadgar turns, feeling distinctly awkward as he all-but flees towards the banquet table. He grabs a small sweet cake and takes a few quick bites. An attendant walks by and offers a tall, beautiful crystal glass filled with something faintly golden and bubbly. Khadgar takes it and sips. It bubbles up the back of his nose and tastes like effervescence and sweet fruit.

The somber yet pleasant background music strikes up again, so Khadgar moves from the table to stand against the wall again, observing. The wall is cool and bracing against his back. His hands are still faintly tingling from the dance, his heart not quite racing but not yet settled.

“Calm down, Khadgar.” He admonishes under his breath. “Be a bit less of a child at the first flush of youth, for Light’s Sake.”

He pops the last bite of cake into his mouth and follows it with a quick, bubbly sip of his drink. He won't have to stay much longer, he reasons. He's made his appearance with the queen, and the longer he stays here, the more convinced he becomes that Lothar isn't going to show.

"I wasn't sure we were going to see you at all tonight, spell-chucker."

_Speak of the devil._

Khadgar turns, snide remark on the tip of his tongue, when he sees The Gryphon standing next to him, looking expectantly his way.

Khadgar's stomach drops - he feels a fool for not recognizing Lothar's voice. Anger - at himself and the situation more so than anything else - floods him from head to toe. What game is Lothar getting at?

In his own defense, he had assumed Lothar would dress up as a lion. But then, what had the Kirin Tor always told him about assumptions?

" _You_ -!" Khadgar gapes, barely keeping from saying Lothar's name aloud.

“You really didn't recognize me?” Lothar asks, sounding genuinely surprised. His voice has entirely changed. The affected, proper enunciation has been cast off as simply as a costume. It is unmistakably him under that mask.

"I had been expecting a lion." Khadgar mutters with a huff. He can feel his features contorting, petulance coloring his tone.

Lothar's head tips back as he laughs, baring his throat. People around them glance over at the sound.

Lothar’s shirt is white but slowly turns a warm golden brown the lower it goes, matching his pants. The neckline is cut very low. Khadgar is thankful suddenly for his own mask.

"Have I disappointed you then?" Lothar asks, wry and still chuckling. He turns to get a glass of wine from the table. Even with the beak of his mask Khadgar can tell the other man is smiling.

"No." Khadgar blurts. Embarrassment floods him. "I mean-" _By the Light_ , if he could only be cool and collected for once in his entire life.

Lothar leans in closer. Khadgar can smell the spice of wine on his breath.

“I’ve decided a lion wouldn't fit you half as well.” Khadgar starts, trying to sound very mature. “For lions are such regal, commanding things, while you and gryphons are both very stubborn beasts.” He smiles, hoping Lothar can see the mean glint in it.

"I'm taking that as a compliment.” Lothar says. Oh, his nonplussed nature is so utterly infuriating sometimes. “For what it's worth, you're not what I was expecting to see either." He looks Khadgar up and down with a minute tilt of his beak mask. A rush of heat floods through Khadgar, making him lose his mental footing. "I was expecting something a bit more ... simple."

"What," Khadgar starts, narrowing his eyes. The perceived slight has him drawing himself up. "Did you think I'd dress as a wizard?" His voice is deadpan, angry. "Big pointed purple hat? Long white beard?"

"Well..." Lothar shrugs. "Yes."

Khadgar scoffs and turns to face the crowd as the mingling takes a moment to come back to its full force, dance partners interchanging. He can’t figure out Lothar’s game, and he feels so off-kilter he’s almost nauseas. The hand not holding his drink is tight in a fist at his side.

"I like this, though."

Khadgar bites his cheek to keep from turning immediately at the compliment, as a flower turns to the sun.

“You like what?” He deflects into his drink, taking a bracing sip from his fluted glass. His emotions are caught like a leaf in the wind, carried any which way at a whim. “The party?”

“Don’t play stupid. You know you're too clever to pull it off.” Lothar returns easily, tone warm. “I meant these feathers." There's a ticklish brush across Khadgar's shoulders, following down the natural flow of the plumage. The hand hovers, just above the curve of Khadgar's spine. Khadgar twitches, but manages to contain his full jerk. "The way they shift in the light is quite magnificent."

"Th-” Khadgar swallows. “Thank you."

"I’d say we're a matching set, you and I." Lothar breathes, a warm exhale against Khadgar’s ear. _By the Light_ , when had he gotten so close?

The liquor is strong on Lothar's breath. Khadgar steels himself and steps away, fighting down the traitorous flutter in his chest. He throws back the last of his drink, glass still so full that drinking it in one go makes his eyes burn.

"I need some air." He says, short and a bit manic, and it's true. _I need to be away from you_ , he doesn't say. Whatever Lothar says now, he's not himself. It's a masquerade; he's having fun; he's less than sober. Lothar loves to mess with him at the best of times. Khadgar can't imagine this is any different - or any better.

He sets off before Lothar can say his goodbye, slipping along against the edge of the room and eventually pushing through the throng. The crowd is a wall, until the music starts again and suddenly the wall melts, parting like water in his path.

Khadgar takes the steps quickly, walks outside to the courtyard set against the ballroom, high-walled and filled with the remains of a fragrant summer garden.

Where it once was thick, verdant and lush, now the stone floor is littered with dry, crackling leaves that catch in the wake of his cloak, and the aroma of flowers has been traded for one of crisp, cooling air and dirt. It’s very bracing, away from the heat of inside.

The path is lit by a plethora of candles, a few carved pumpkins placed sporadically. Their blocky, flickering grins feel mocking as Khadgar walks. He rounds a corner and finds a stone bench to settle on with a soft sound. He puts the glass down on the bench and leans his elbows on his knees.

A party. A masquerade ball. How stupid. Why did he even come? What good is a party to the Guardian of Azeroth? Surely Medivh never --

The thought screeches to a halt. No, the last Guardian before him surely didn't attend many parties. At first, he probably meant it as Khadgar would; too busy, not right, improper. Then, as the corruption began to find him, it would have gotten worse.

Perhaps this party hasn't been what Khadgar expected - and just what was he expecting, he thinks with a savage edge - but that does not mean it was a poor choice. Whatever his feelings about Lothar, he will always need to take time away from the tower, from his books and the empty echo of Karazhan's halls.

He pushes back his hood. Beneath his hair is faintly damp with sweat; he musses it with a quick, sharp scrub of his palm. He pulls off his mask and plucks dejectedly at his costume, pulling free one of the feathers of his cloak. It is dull now in the dark, black and matte. He cups it in his palm and tilts it towards the candlelight, watching it catch the meager light and shimmer.

 _From darkness, light,_ he thinks, and spins the feather by its hollow shaft.

"Khadgar." He exhales, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes until colors dance behind the lids. "You are a fool."

"I wouldn't go so far as that."

Khadgar startles and drops his mask, every inch of his body tensing. The warm bellyful of spiced liquor goes sour with a lurch.

"Your manners need some work, though. Storming off from your king like that?" Lothar makes a disappointed sound, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

The music in the ballroom starts to trickle out the open doors; the disjointed sounds of the small orchestra warming up. Khadgar sighs and pulls away his hands.

"Apologies, your Majesty." He mutters.

Lothar scoffs, hard edge softened slightly by a faint slur. "I didn't come here for apologies."

"Then why did you?"

"You might think you're clever; might think you have that mask to hide behind; but you've got a ways to go before you have a good enough face to fool me.” Lothar snaps.

Khadgar bristles. "Go back inside. You’ll have a better time mingling at the party."

"Why?" Lothar steps closer. The moon has him limned. It alights on his feathers in the most beautiful way. Khadgar can feel his cheeks heating; the dark, he hopes, will hide it. "You aren't there."

"You're drunk." Khadgar retorts, not vicious but trying so desperately to be.

"I'm _slightly_ inebriated." Lothar concedes. Out the open doors the music pours, louder but still gently muffled. Something slow, mournful cello with moments of brighter violin. Khadgar looks askance at one of the carved pumpkins. It's been enchanted and floats a bit off the ground. The way it bobs as it floats makes it look as if the thing is laughing.

"Dance with me?"

Khadgar jerks, looking at Lothar as if he's grown a second head.

"What? You know I can't dance." He says, rote.

"Nonsense. You were fine before." When Khadgar doesn't move, Lothar tries another tactic. "I am your king.” He says, with put-upon loftiness, “I could always command you."

Khadgar smiles despite himself. He bites it back quickly enough, but the damage is done. “You are being ridiculous.” He chides, shaking his head. “No better than your nephew.”

Lothar shrugs lazily, accepting the accusation with little fight, body motions telltale loose with drink. The silence spreads between them, expectant. It stirs up something in Khadgar, something self-protective and strong.

“Why do you want to _dance_ with me? _Again_?” Khadgar asks, a bit sharp.

The light in the garden has Lothar's face mostly in shadow. Silence hangs between them.

“Isn't that the point of these parties, to dance?" Lothar says, shrugging and throwing his arms out. Khadgar sits, stares at Lothar as if he can will the truth from him in gaze alone. "You danced easily enough with a stranger, before.” Lothar finally adds. His voice is very different; softer. Khadgar swallows. “Now I’d like you dance with me.”

Khadgar’s heart leaps into his throat. "Lothar," he says, fading out into nothing. He has nothing to say. What is there to say?

There's a sound like cloth rustling, and then Lothar is holding out his hand. "Come on." 

Speechless, Khadgar gets to his feet and takes Lothar’s hand, starting to walk back down the path.

Just as he passes Lothar on his way to the ballroom, Lothar pulls him up short.

Khadgar turns, giving Lothar a look. "What?” He says, barely a breath. His cheeks are aflame, and he suddenly remembers his mask lies on the floor by the bench. Lothar's expression is nearly inscrutable; Khadgar no longer has any way to hide. “I thought you wanted to dance."

"I do." Lothar's voice has gone so quiet; just the gentle creep of dawn over a hill. "Just... Outside."

"What? _Here?_ " The question is panicked, shaken, but it comes out quiet to match Lothar's tone.

Lothar hums the affirmative. Khadgar, standing with his back to the ballroom, stares at Lothar. The light from the party inside gives him a good look at Lothar's eyes beneath the mask. They no longer glimmer with mischief.

"All right." Khadgar breathes, because he is an idiot, and because saying no to Lothar has always been an exercise in futility.

He steps in, but they weren't far apart to begin with. Lothar's hands go to their places at once. They feel overly warm after the cool fall air. Stilted by sudden awareness, Khadgar holds his hand out, but Lothar shakes his head.

"Around my neck." Lothar says. Khadgar freezes for a moment. He swallows, and then loops his arms up around Lothar’s nape. He lays them down across the broad, feathered swath of Lothar's shoulders. His elbows crook, framing Lothar's beak-masked face.

A beat, two, and then Lothar moves them.

It is entirely different and yet exactly the same as it was before.

It takes but a moment for Khadgar to fall into the rhythm. The music is quieter out here; they seem to be moving to rhythm only Lothar can hear. Khadgar doesn't feel the same unsteadiness, nor does he feel the faint undercurrent of apprehension that was there the first time. His body, it seems, now knows the steps. He moves at the lightest coaxing from Lothar's hands, follows his lead. The song is slower, each note pulling at Khadgar's gut in a new and dangerous way.

“I should have known you wouldn't come as something so simple as a wizard.” Lothar murmurs. “You’re always surprising me; you exceed expectations.”

Khadgar flushes, glancing away over Lothar's shoulder. He wishes he hadn’t taken his mask off.

“How did you know?” He asks. “I … obviously, I didn’t recognize you.”

“I just did." Lothar says. It seems the words surprise even him - his lips twist in the light, before he speaks again. "The feathers. I knew it was you when I saw them. It was so simple, but intricate. Anyone could have thrown on a black cloak and called themselves a carrion bird. You..." Lothar's shoulders move under Khadgar's arms as if like a shrug. "You did more."

For a while they dance, not speaking. Lothar is so warm against the chill; Khadgar fights the urge to press his face to his shoulder.

“I take back what I said, earlier.” Khadgar murmurs, finally breaking the quiet. “A lion would have been too obvious; _I_ underestimated _you_ , assuming you’d go for something so cliché.”

“Well.” Lothar hedges. Khadgar can feel the pressure of his hand on the small of his back change, press tighter for an instant. “They do call me the lion of Stormwind, after all.”

“Still.” Khadgar smoothes a hand over the line of feathers across the pauldrons. Their legs brush as Lothar turns them. “A gryphon suits you.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.” Khadgar pulls back until he can see Lothar behind the mask.

They dance in more of a sway, turning but with less hop-push-pull as there had been before in the ballroom. Their stance is so much less formal; Lothar’s hands are heavy, one below Khadgar’s shoulder and the other lower at the curve of his back. It is unbearably intimate.

Here in the dark, all he can focus on is Lothar. The sound of his breaths, the smell of the wine they've both been drinking, the warmth of their bodies.

This time, Lothar does not spin Khadgar away. He feels grateful for it.

Lothar does, however, dip him. Khadgar gasps, takes handfuls of Lothar's shoulders even though he is supported perfectly well by Lothar's hold on his waist.

The instant he dangles there, entirely at Lothar's mercy, feels like an eternity. He can barely see Lothar's expression at this angle, but Lothar has full view of him.  
Khadgar hangs, heart in his throat, until Lothar stands again. Khadgar finds himself pressed to Lothar, chest to knee. He has to pull his head back to keep from knocking skulls.

Lothar reaches up, slow, and pulls off his own mask. It falls with a muted sound to the floor. His face is faintly flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"Lothar." Khadgar breathes; question, apology and plea in one word.

His heart is in his throat. His face is heating like a midsummer bonfire flame and he can feel this strange flutter from head to toe.

Lothar tilts his head, Khadgar sighs, and then they're kissing.

Khadgar’s grip about Lothar’s neck tightens immediately, as his knees go to water at the first touch of lips. They kiss once, sweet and simple, eyes open. Then Khadgar’s eyes flutter closed and Lothar pulls away, barely any distance at all. Still, the moment hangs heavy - an eon - before he returns, kissing with intent.

Lothar pulls Khadgar against him, tight, and Khadgar gasps from the pressure of it. Lothar takes it as invitation and licks at the line of Khadgar’s lips, licks past to Khadgar’s teeth and tongue. Something in Khadgar’s chest twists painfully, catches his breath out of his lungs as he kisses back. All he can think about is Lothar near to him, Lothar touching him, Lothar kissing him as if it is the last thing he will ever do. The thought shakes Khadgar to his core.

Around the corner, Khadgar hears laughter. He breaks the kiss with a wet, smacking noise that makes his ears burn. Lothar turns to face the sound, body gone taught.

They stay standing there, frozen, and then before Khadgar can begin to form a thought, he is being pushed; Lothar walks them back, back, back. They hit the wall with a muffled sound, tucked behind a great tree and into the shadows behind the bench.

Everything is much darker, but Khadgar can still all-but-feel Lothar’s gaze.

Before inhibitions can return to either of them Khadgar kisses blindly at Lothar’s face, lips knocking against his chin and cheek until their mouths find each other again. Here in the shadows it feels so different, no longer magicked by moonlight and music. Now it is the smell of fall around them, melting candles and the faint, pleasant smell of warm pumpkin from the jack-o-lantern nearby.

Lothar is a hot and pleasant warmth all along Khadgar's front, pressing against him as if to sink them both into the wall at Khadgar's back.

What was once faraway laughter suddenly becomes dangerously close voices. Both of them break apart again. They stand there, panting against each other’s mouths. Khadgar’s ears are trained to the sound of the others, but it’s hard to hear above the beating of his heart and the breath he’s struggling to catch. After a moment, Lothar ducks his head and puts his lips to Khadgar’s neck. Heat jolts through him; Khadgar jerks and bites at his lip, viciously, to keep quiet. He can't help thinking the people in the garden must be able to hear them; the labored panting, the way Lothar's nearness makes Khadgar’s very breath hitch.

God, Khadgar doesn't know -- he can't think other than that he wants Lothar so badly it feels as if it is choking the life from him. Like the feelings are squeezing his chest in a vice with some unbearable weight.

Lothar’s mouth is doing devious things. Does he want us to get caught? Khadgar thinks, hysterically, Lothar’s hands moving under the edges of Khadgar’s cloak and dragging against his shirt.

"Please.” Khadgar breathes, not begging but a reminder. His words are barely audible, spoken against the skin of Lothar's temple; pressed into the warm, sweaty skin of his scalp. Lothar turns, his nose running the line of Khadgar's throat. His lips follow, soft and warm. Goosebumps raise at the touch, almost ticklish.

Khadgar doesn't want anything really, other than this. Lothar's hands on him, his lips, his touch and attention. If he could have this, continually -- he would be happy.

The centuries it takes for the group to pass do little to ease the burn in Khadgar’s very blood. When the last of the footsteps have fully receded, Lothar lifts his head and catches Khadgar's mouth, leading him into a deep, searching kiss. Khadgar puts his fingers into Lothar's hair, tangling in the braid and not minding gentleness. He pushes up to his tip toes and follows when Lothar breaks away, his lips crashing indelicately against Lothar's stubble lined jaw.

"Please," he breathes again, different, the mulled wine making him bold.

Understanding blossoms between them, and Khadgar doesn’t need to be told what to do. He pulls Lothar to him and kisses him as he calls up his magic, trusting his instincts as he never has before. Second-nature, in a new and frightening way. One moment they’re pressed to the wall in a chilly garden, and one breath later they’re in Khadgar’s room, stumbling at the loss of a wall at Khadgar’s back.

The room is nice enough to have its own fireplace, and Khadgar barely looks at it before it springs to life. Once-dark corners are now lit by flickering, warm light. Lothar’s eyes look wide and wild, his hair coming free of its plait. Khadgar sheds his cloak, shrugging his shoulders and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. It feels a bit like removing armor, a bit like an invitation; it thrills up his spine, illicit. Lothar’s pupils go big and dark, his mouth falling slightly open on a soft gasp.

“Khadgar.” Lothar breathes, the first time he’s said it all evening. It rolls a wave up pleasure up Khadgar’s back so strong he fears he’ll pass out. In an instant he’s upon him, kissing Lothar with a hungry ferocity that surprises even himself, in the distant back parts of his mind. Lothar takes it in stride, bracing against the onslaught and giving back twice as much as he receives, hunger matching hunger. He tangles his hands in Lothar's hair, pulls at him, and leads him to bed.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, they lays there, Khadgar barely breathing for fear of dislodging Lothar from his crushing him into the mattress. Lothar’s mouth against his own is so important; Khadgar keeps them kissing until both of them are too tired to continue and yet they still do, lips seeking each other without aim, eyes half closed but neither willing to stop. Sparks are still dancing up Khadgar's spine, not arousal but something else, something he recognizes as far more dangerous.

He isn’t naive. Khadgar doesn't expect it to be more than this. Perhaps, if he is lucky, Lothar might have enjoyed this enough to bring Khadgar to his bed whenever he returns to Stormwind. He can't expect Lothar to be with him, to stroke his hair tenderly at night and kiss him good morning. He won't even expect Lothar to still be here come morning. So Khadgar continues to kiss him until his lips are sore, and then on and on, until he is dragged to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 When he rolls over in the night and wakes up - just a moment of lucidity in the dark - Khadgar takes account of the sheets, warmed from another body and the smell of their sex and sweat. He turns and presses his nose against the heroic spread of Lothar's back, tucked between his shoulder blades where the skin is warm and scarred and sun-thick. He fits an arm over Lothar’s muscled abdomen and lulls himself to sleep with a heartbeat and the press of lungs breathing in and out.

 

* * *

 

Dawn is, as always, impossible to avoid. Khadgar groans. He isn't ready to face the day.

He notes with no small pleasure that he isn't hungover. There’s no need to open his eyes in order to find the bed empty. The bed in his room is quite small, and it's easy to feel how he has it all to himself.

He can still smell Lothar on the sheets, still taste him behind the acrid fuzz of morning on his tongue. He can still _feel_ him, he thinks with a shiver, and his body reacts without Khadgar's consent. He groans again, an entirely different sound, and rolls his hips against the mattress.

"Are you going to share that?" A deep, sleep-throaty voice asks and Khadgar gasps. For an instant he cannot move, doesn't dare turn to face Lothar in the light of day. He's sure the heat of his embarrassment must be visible, spreading down his neck.

When Lothar doesn’t continue, Khadgar knows he cannot continue to hide. It will only make it worse if he delays the inevitable.

As he rolls over, Lothar is standing by the foot of the bed. Khadgar notes he has put on his smallclothes. It's all a bit surreal, like a dream. Khadgar suddenly feels ill.

"Are you leaving?" He blurts out. His traitorous eyes catch the faint bruising he left on Lothar's neck, the swell of his well-kissed lips. Khadgar's own mouth - and other places - still feel roughed by Lothar's beard, and he's sure he has his own fair share of marks.

Belatedly, Khadgar realises he's naked and obviously aroused. He yanks the sheets across his lap, shame burning in his throat.

"No." Lothar says, simply enough, but with a strange look. He steps closer. "Unless - you'd like me to?"

Khadgar is frozen. His heart has leapt back into his throat, racing loudly in his ears, but the way he wants Lothar hasn't changed. Beneath the sheets, his interest has yet to flag.

"I -" Khadgar stops, breathes in. Out. He thinks about what he means to say. Lothar steps closer, glances just once between the cover of the sheets and Khadgar’s face. "No."

"Good." Lothar murmurs, and kisses him.

 

* * *

 

 

Lothar all but falls upon him, pinning him onto the bed and Khadgar is shaking, stupidly overwhelmed and confused. He throws one leg over Lothar's hip to slot him close, to allow an outlet to his shivering, arching up and kissing Lothar again and again, swallowing his noises.

He wants to ask questions, which is stupid. He wants to say all of the things he knows he shouldn't, ask for things he knows he can’t have. But Lothar's hand cups Khadgar's cheek to change the angle of their kissing and Khadgar whimpers, arches up again as Lothar's tongue licks the backs of his teeth and his other hand cups the small of Khadgar's back - the dip just as back meets ass.

Lothar makes a heavy noise, a needy one, and shivers crawl up Khadgar's back. Something shakes loose inside of him, breaking the dam. Logic flies out the window, along with clear thought. Khadgar spreads his legs and pulls at Lothar, tries to grind them together and whines, pleading without words.

"Shh." Lothar soothes, gasping for breath and voice creaking. He reaches down to pull away the sheet between them. The drag of it across Khadgar’s cock is like lightning; he gasps, writhing. It seems to get to Lothar, inexplicably. He chokes out a groan. " _By the Light_  -- Shh, all right, I've got you."

Lothar rears up onto his haunches to remove his underwear and Khadgar bites back a desperate sound, sitting up to kiss him wet and deep, and then peppering kisses down the wrought skin of Lothar's chest, following scars with his lips. Lothar makes a noise, punched out and soft, and presses Khadgar back to the bed with a warm palm on his sternum. Khadgar goes easily, only because he folds his arms around Lothar's neck to pull him down, breath hitching when Lothar reaches down to adjust himself and slips a finger inside of Khadgar, facing barely any resistance. Lothar moans, soft and muffled into Khadgar's neck.

Khadgar pants, heavy and damp, staring blindly towards the ceiling. Heat threatens to combust him, here and now, as he feels the wet drag of Lothar’s blunt fingers inside of him. It’s too little and utterly everything he could ever, ever want. He’s still slick with Lothar’s -- with the result of their fucking the night before. He flushes to think of it, and it ratchets his arousal, his need even higher, which a moment ago felt impossible.

Lothar spends time pressing in at Khadgar with one finger, and then two. He curls them both and scissors them, not hitting the mark but feeding the beginning of the hunger, the hunger that makes Khadgar sigh and croon. It is good, until it isn’t enough, and Khadgar rolls his hips down and bites at Lothar’s lips until he gets the message.

Lothar’s free hand wriggles between their bodies. Khadgar reaches down to join it, and Lothar jolts, hisses at the touch of Khadgar’s hand against the swollen heat of his cock. Khadgar closes his eyes against the rush of need in him. Together, they feed Lothar up and into Khadgar's hole, slow but unrelenting. Khadgar arches against the bed, neck curving and the back of his head pressed to the pillow. The entire room is aglow with sunrise light and it makes Khadgar's eyes damp, overwhelmed by the feeling of Lothar within him and the sight of him limned in morning gold.

He stays that way, bow-string tight, as the initial sensation fades. Slowly he unwinds, shaking with it. He keeps breathing, big gasping inhales, and Lothar doesn’t so much as twitch. He’s braced on one forearm over Khadgar, their bellies touching and pressing together as they breathe.

" _Lothar_." Khadgar gasps, his fingers just barely alighting his own rim and Lothar’s girth inside. Lothar lifts his hand away and Khadgar almost sobs when he kisses the pads of Khadgar’s fingers, butterfly-soft up his knuckles. He won’t stop looking at Khadgar.

Quieter and less sure, he says, "Anduin."

Lothar's gaze locks to his, eyes wild and bright with something new but heady, an emotion Khadgar doesn't yet know but wants to understand. Lothar ducks his head and kisses Khadgar soundly; they lose time to kissing, before Lothar starts to move his hips, deep and slow. He barely pulls out, seems to only be pressing in in in, and Khadgar does sob when it hits just so, almost unbearable but so fleeting.

He tangles his fingers in Lothar's hair to keep them close, to keep kissing him and to have leverage to move after him when he lifts himself up, changing angles. Lothar never admonishes him, never turns away. Khadgar bites into Lothar’s lower lip once, when Lothar pulls away to breathe, and holds it between his teeth. Lothar makes his feral sound, and dives back in.

The pace builds slowly, sweat accumulating on their skin. The room is hot with the smell of their coupling; and the sound of it - slick, hot skin-on-skin noises, the faint slap of Lothar bottoming out with each thrust, the muted creak of the bed. It feels over-loud in the quiet room. That and their breathing, and the noises Khadgar isn't afraid to let loose and the deep, gutted grunts that Lothar keeps making. Their foreheads press together as the tempo builds, neither of them able to keep kissing now. Their mouths buss together as Lothar fucks into him in earnest. Khadgar lets out a broken, bitten-back wail as a good thrust seems to light him up from head to toe, making his eyes roll back and his toes curl up.

The speed of it builds, no longer deep and belly-quaking but something sharper. Khadgar pulls at Lothar’s hair, digs his heels into the bed to arch up and meet every thrust with all he has. They’re both dripping with sweat now, nearly slippery with it. Lothar plants both his hands on either side of Khadgar’s head, works to get as deep as he can with each thrust, again and again and again.

" _Fuck_." Lothar snarls, and then something unintelligible followed by Khadgar's name. It shakes Khadgar to the core, hearing Lothar say his name that way. He clenches down on Lothar inside of him, listens to the litany of curses and decides he likes that, so he does it again. "Oh _Light_ , Khadgar, I -- _you're_ \--" Lothar gasps, starts to rut, jackrabbit fast, with far less finesse. He reaches down between their bodies, trails his fingers down Khadgar’s belly, sticky and wet. The first touch of his fingers to Khadgar's cock is ecstasy. "I can’t-- you have _no_ idea -- you're _so_ \--"

Khadgar comes to Lothar's praise, to his name on Lothar's lips and then them kissing, to words pressed into Khadgar’s gasping mouth as Lothar moans with a sharp, whimpering edge. His body goes tight, vision whiting out. He can feel his heart in his throat, can barely hear above the roaring in his ears. Lothar is speaking, Khadgar can tell, but the words are lost to the tide of pleasure. As Khadgar settles, Lothar keeps rutting, and it is sensitive, but Khadgar doesn't want him to stop - would never dream of saying it. When Lothar comes, he shakes and shivers. His lust-darkened eyes go wide and then screw shut and it runs through him in a full-body shudder, burying his face in against Khadgar's neck. Lothar continues to thrust his hips in quick, jerking motions as he loses steam. Khadgar turns his head, nosing at Lothar until they can kiss again. Each kiss from Lothar is still sharp and hungry with his tongue.

They’re both breathing so hard. Khadgar’s lungs nearly burn with it. They keep moving together as they leave the frenetic high. Khadgar can feel his legs cramping; his fingers are tight as he undoes the death-grip of them, flexes them gently. Finally, he closes his eyes - keeps them closed and clenches his teeth as he feels Lothar start to soften and slip free. As he pulls out, Lothar makes a soft, wounded sound. Khadgar bites his back.

Lothar rolls to the side, as starfished as a man can be when sharing a bed this small with someone else.

The world slowly returns to its regular, even pace. Their breathing syncs together for an instant, and then loses its rhythm.

Now, he is sure, Lothar will leave. His morning libido is sated, and the ugly, harsh light of day will soon press him out of this room and to his duties.

“That was…” Lothar starts, and then; "Are you all right?" He asks, voice rough.

Khadgar can't keep himself from flinching. He thins his lips and shakes his head, eyes still closed.

"I'm fine." He says, much sharper than he intended. _Shit_. Beside him, Lothar raises up. Khadgar opens his eyes and sees him, hovering. He looks over Lothar’s shoulder, to the faint shadows in the ceiling. Khadgar wants Lothar to lay down, press Khadgar to the mattress with his body and never let him leave this bed. His hands are clenching into fists at his sides. The come on his stomach is going cold and decidedly tacky; Lothar's, in contrast, is still loose, and unpleasantly ticklish as it drips.

"Bullshit." Lothar announces. His voice is still rough in a way Khadgar has never heard it before, not even when they traveled together and Lothar would wake Khadgar before the sun had even lit the sky above the horizon. When he speaks again he is imploring. "Look at me.” Khadgar blinks, turning to the side and closing his eyes again. _Please_ , he thinks. “Khadgar."

Of course, Khadgar is weak to anything Lothar asks of him. He always has been, and presumably always will be. He sighs, opens his eyes and turns, blinks in the sunlight and then stares up at Lothar, still holding himself over Khadgar. His hair is hanging in his flushed-red face, with sweat in rivulets but not quite dripping from his nose, chin and forehead. He looks so beautiful Khadgar can barely stand it.

"Did...” Lothar stops. “Are you..." His expression crumples like parchment in someone's fist. "I didn't,” he looks away, towards Khadgar's left ear, “hurt you?"

"No!" Khadgar exclaims, almost a shout in the space between them. He won’t have Lothar feeling guilty. "No, Lothar, not at all, please don't think--"

"Then can you tell me why you look as if you're waiting for your execution?" Lothar interrupts, an angry hiss. His eyes, normally a bubbly font of playfulness and calm unreadable facades, are as clear as any spring. Hurt reads easily across his features, along with apprehension, and that same earnestness that nearly hurts to see.

Khadgar doesn't have an answer for that. 'I'm only waiting for you to leave me' is much too melodramatic, even if it is true.

"I.." He can't say it without sounding like a complete ass. I wasn't ready for you to care, for you to not leave me behind? It's cruel even to think it, even though he doesn't mean it that way. "I'm... scared."

It's true. More truth than he may have wanted, in all honesty.

"Scared?" Lothar sits up, balanced on his calves, carefully not supporting himself by sitting on Khadgar's thighs. It's so painfully obvious, so deeply sweet and self-aware that Khadgar's belly twists with guilt. His words are fast, surprised. "Of what?"

Khadgar huffs. He doesn't -- he's naked and covered in his own come, and he doesn't want this conversation. Not now. Preferably not ever.

"Of me?"

Lothar's voice is so very hurt that it hits Khadgar like a punch to the stomach. It is the utter antithesis of who Lothar is, of how he presents himself. That Khadgar has brought him so low shocks him into movement. He sits up, nearly dislodging Lothar in the process.

"No!"

"You keep saying _no_ , Khadgar.” Lothar huffs. His expression is closing off, quickly, going dark and frustrated. “But that isn't really an answer--"

Khadgar growls, exhales and covers his face. “You were supposed to leave!” He interrupts.

The room goes quiet enough to hear the bustle of the streets outside the keep. Khadgar focuses on breathing.

"... Leave? Khadgar, what -"

"You were going to be gone this morning, and that was going to be it."

Khadgar pulls his hands away, peeking at Lothar. He’s no longer looking at him, instead somewhere in middle distance.  
  
“Is that… what you wanted?"

Khadgar shakes his head. “No.” He says. He can feel stupid, traitorous tears in his eyes.

“Then what do you want?” Lothar asks. Khadgar gives a weak, weird little laugh. Nerves.

“You.” He says, simple, the word bubbling with the way he’s trying not to outright cry. “I was stupid and I … I shouldn’t have done this.”

Khadgar pulls himself up and swings his legs over the bed. It hurts, a bit - like a sore muscle, overtaxed and weary the next morning. He can't stay here, though. With a bit of hysteria, he remembers he is in his own room.

“Khadgar, what are you doing?”

Khadgar ignores him, gets up and tries to find his clothing. He feels so incredibly stupid, naked with come dripping down his legs, stumbling around trying to find at least some smallclothes.

“Khadgar!”

The tears are really coming now. Not sad ones, really, but embarrassment, tension, hatred at his own stupidity.

He never should have let this happen. He should have left the party the moment he realized it was Lothar in that costume. He should have teleported before they ever kissed. He never should have let Lothar fuck him a second time, even as he wanted something to remember, a second, perfect time to keep in his thoughts; keep him company in his tower, as he isolated himself and --

"Stop!” Lothar commands.

Khadgar, cursing himself all the way, stops.

Lothar gets up, moves on his knees across the bed in a way that is all kinds of undignified, and not in the least well-coordinated. Khadgar’s fool heart is endeared nonetheless.

He doesn't mean to flinch when Lothar reaches out to put his hand to Khadgar's cheek, but he can't undo it once it's done. Lothar’s expression shutters and he starts to pull away; Khadgar reaches out, wraps his hand around the worn, thin skin of Lothar's wrist and pulls him close, closes his eyes to ignore his own blushing. He presses his cheek into the cushion of Lothar's palm.

"Do you think I sleep with many people?" Lothar asks, tone surprisingly serious. Khadgar swallows.

"It isn't any of my business.” He mutters, pathetic. He moves, ever so slightly, so that his lips touch the base of Lothar's palm. His heart is racing, foolishness making his chest flutter.

"What if I want it to be?" Lothar says. He makes a throaty sound of frustration. "I didn't bring you here to leave you behind, Khadgar."

Khadgar's eyes fly open, quickly cataloging Lothar's face. He looks much more tired than when they first met, older in little ways. Khadgar has thought he was handsome since their first inopportune meeting, and has had a useless, burning want to be brought to his bed ever since their first skirmish in the woods. Only now he wants to kiss him, and hold him, and know him as perhaps no one still living does. He has seen Lothar brought low and high on the racing energy of battle. He remembers, with crystal clarity, that Lothar's face was the first he saw as the burn of fel magic faded.

“ _Technically_ ,” Khadgar says, muttering into Lothar’s palm. “I’m the one that brought us here. With magic.”

“I remember.” Lothar breathes. He moves closer, in a way that reminds Khadgar of how he’s seen the gryphon- and horse-trainers approach newly acquired stock. Slow, broadcasting their movements so as to avoid startling them. Lothar’s palm moves, turning to cup Khadgar’s cheek as his other hand finds Khadgar’s hip. On his knees on the mattress, they’re of a height. It’s strange not to be looking up at him.

“You make me feel like such a foolish child, sometimes.” Khadgar blurts out. “I’ve been so stupidly besotted over you. I know it sounds idiotic, but I just … when we’re together, I know you. You’re clever, and you’re kind, and you’re strong. You’re so incredibly stubborn.” He says, awe in his voice and laughing weakly. “And you are loyal to a fault. You are…” Khadgar exhales, shaking. “A great man. But you’re the King Regent, and I’m … I would never dare to...”

“ _To_?”

“To stand beside you like that.” Khadgar whispers, shaking with it. “I don’t belong there." He looks towards the ceiling to try and fight back the tears. "Lothar," he starts, voice wavering, "Last night... the wine, the masks, the party... It was -- you can’t possibly-”

“What?” Lothar snaps. He moves like a blur, so fluid that in a blink he’s standing before Khadgar, looming over him. “I can’t what?” He takes Khadgar’s face in both hands, one finger gently swiping at the trail of a loosed tear.

“Can't kiss you?” He ducks in, kisses Khadgar once. His other hand tangles in Khadgar's short hair, tilting his head and gently scratching at his scalp as he turns Khadgar into the kiss. He pulls away, but then he ducks in again, kissing Khadgar with a soft sound like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it. Everything is going dizzy. He presses their bodies together, combining a sinuous roll of his hips with his teeth pulling at Khadgar's lower lip in a move that has him clutching at Lothar's forearms.

“Can’t have you?” Lothar whispers, breath hot against Khadgar’s mouth. He peppers soft, lingering kisses along Khadgar's brows. “Can’t lo-”

“ _Stop it_ _!_ ” Khadgar gasps, planting both hands on Lothar’s chest and pushing him away. Lothar stumbles but steps back; startled, but not toppled. “Lothar, we can’t-”

"Do not ever let anyone tell you that you can't!" Lothar interrupts, fierce and unyielding. His expression is almost terrifying in its intensity. "Especially not yourself." It is ridiculous how commanding he can be, standing stark naked in the warm light of the sun through the window. He storms over, grabs Khadgar's cheeks. He ducks his head until all Khadgar can see are Lothar's eyes, so bright and honest. Khadgar crosses his arms across his torso, suddenly feeling exposed. "Look, Khadgar... Whatever you want, whatever you _think_ \-- know this: last night was _not_ about the wine. It wasn't about the masks." Khadgar watches as he takes a deep breath. His eyes close for a moment, and then open again, braced. "Last night was you and me."

Khadgar feels as if there is a hook beneath his ribs, similar to the yank of the arcane in his gut but higher, sharper. It takes the air from his lungs, leaves him gaping. He's sure he looks mad, staring at Lothar with eyes wide and no words to speak.

"I've said my piece. So," Lothar starts, "do you want this?"

"Yes." Khadgar says, with no hesitation. He has never hesitated when it comes to Lothar.

Something small and like a smile pulls at Lothar's lips, crinkles up his eyes. Khadgar's heart flutters.

"Good. Because so do I. And I think - between myself and the savior of Azeroth - anything is possible, should we both want it."

Khadgar can't stop the wide, foolish grin that breaks upon his face, pulling almost painfully at his cheeks. He laughs, emotions overtaking him, and feels more tears leak free.

"Come here." Lothar says, holds his arms open wide. Khadgar steps in, wraps his arms around Lothar and holds on tight. Lothar returns the favor, and for a while they stand there, holding each other. Khadgar takes deep breaths, fighting to calm down. "Anyone ever tell you you're quite emotional, for a mage?"

Khadgar laughs, shaking his head.

"I never knew you were such a sap." He returns, mouth pressed to the skin of Lothar's collarbone. A rumbling chuckle comes up from Lothar's chest as their noses brush, then their cheeks and the kiss-swollen lines of their mouths.

"I thought you said you knew me." Lothar purrs, amused.

"I could always stand to know more." Khadgar smirks, feels Lothar's answering smile pressed warm against to his own. "I've been told I'm a fast learner."

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "Masquerade" from Phantom of the Opera bc I'm fucking creative like that


End file.
